


Until there's nothing left

by teacuphuman



Series: Bingo Card 2017 [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst with a Happy Ending, Limbo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 02:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11522301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: There’s a blur at the edge of Arthur’s vision, just as his movements turn erratic. A shadow, maybe, or a bruise. Some marring on Eames’ side that wasn’t there before.





	Until there's nothing left

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Age Regression/De-Aging square on my kink/trope Bingo card.
> 
> Thanks to katethereader for the beta!

  
  
  


Arthur’s panting, Eames’ wide, solid body under his hands. Shoulders spread out on the sheets, inching further and further up the bed with every thrust. It’s good. It’s so good, just like it always is, and Arthur can feel his orgasm building, slow, but strong, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to fuck Eames into the mattress.

 

There’s a blur at the edge of Arthur’s vision, just as his movements turn erratic. A shadow, maybe, or a bruise. Some marring on Eames’ side that wasn’t there before. Eames moans and reaches back to Arthur’s thigh, keeping him going as he slows down to contemplate the mark. It’s dusk outside, and they didn’t bother with the lights before starting, so he can’t quite make out the shape of it. It’s familiar, that much he knows, and there’s a memory trying to surface, something fuzzy about a bird and too many shots of tequila. 

 

Eames shifts and the mark is gone, but he’s clenching around Arthur, and he’s so tight, and so hot that Arthur can’t hold onto his worry as he starts to come.

  
  
  
  


Eames likes to sit on the balcony in the mornings. There’s coffee at his elbow and a half eaten croissant in his hand. He tips his head toward the paper on the table and the light shifts on his ruffled hair, drawing Arthur’s eye.

 

Arthur runs his hand through it, the rich butterscotch strands falling in soft waves. It’s gotten longer than it’s been in years, but Eames doesn’t seem to mind. He pushes into Arthur’s touch, humming softly without turning. 

 

Arthur starts to laugh when he realizes what struck him as odd. Gone from Eames’ hair and beard are all traces of grey. The soft creeping at his temples and crown that Arthur secretly adored have been banished, no doubt to a box of store brand dye, hidden at the bottom of the trashcan in the bathroom. He knew Eames was vain, but this is a bit much. He wonders if Eames dyed his beard, as well.

 

Eames turns his face up to him and the laughter dies in Arthur’s throat. The beard has vanished all together, and Eames looks so foreign, so off, so out of place in this life that for a moment Arthur can’t remember how they got there. And then Eames is nuzzling Arthur’s belly and pulling down his pants, his mouth hot and wet, and all Arthur can think about is how thankful he is that Eames has let his hair grow out.

  
  


Eames has a three-centimeter scar that bisects his right eyebrow. It’s been there since the Soung job when Eames had to flee from a double cross and a South Korean barber took offense to the large British man who jumped through his front window. 

 

Arthur knows this because he was there. It had been their first job together and Arthur had stitched Eames up in the cargo carriage of a train heading out of Yongin. For years he’d had conflicted feelings about the scar left behind, both thicker and longer than it needed to be, but somehow lending Eames’ face more character and charm.

 

Arthur’s hand shakes as he rubs a finger over the unbroken line of Eames’ right eyebrow, his heart in his throat. It was there yesterday, he knows it was. But yesterday feels like a year and a day away from now. Like Arthur fell asleep and missed the setting and rising of the sun.

 

Eames is asleep with his head in Arthur’s lap so it’s nothing to reach down and hike up the left side of his shirt.  _ Montreal _ , Arthur repeats in his head. Four inches of serrated steel, too close to Eames’ spleen to save it. A real hospital with a cover story of a mugging gone bad.

 

Arthur pacing the hallways while Eames was in surgery, panicked, and sick at the thought of losing him. Reasoning, and bargaining, and convincing himself that now was the time to come clean. The time to explain. The time to confess that somehow, amidst the jobs and the sleep, the chasing, and the dreams, Arthur had fallen in love.

 

Eames’ torso is smooth, muscled, and inked, but not scarred like Arthur’s mind tells him it should be.  _ Montreal _ , Arthur whispers, but he can’t remember why. 

 

Eames stirs and blinks up at him with sleep in his eyes, and just like back then, Arthur finds he cannot speak.

  
  
  


Arthur can wrap his arms around the breadth of Eames’ shoulders. It’s good. It’s nice. To hold him like this, like he could keep Eames in this spot if he wanted to. His face feels sharper when he trails his nose up Arthur’s neck, and there’s a hollowness in his cheeks that’s yet to fill out. His smile is shy, his movements unsure, but Arthur’s never been afraid of leading the way.

 

He pushes the shirt off Eames’ shoulders, rubbing his hands down to his narrow waist. Eames’ back is reflected in the bathroom mirror and it seems empty somehow. Like a canvas waiting to be transformed.

 

Eames’ mouth is greedy, his tongue quick, and when he drops to his knees, Arthur can’t help but smirk. He doesn’t know how he ended up with this hot, young thing at his beck and call, but he’s happy to indulge. Eames is always willing, and eager, like everything is new to him, and he can’t wait to experience it all.

 

But no, that’s not right. They’ve been together for years. Arthur winces when Eames’ teeth graze the head of his cock, and his fingers tighten in Eames’ hair. Years. Paris, and Yongin, and Montreal. 

 

He looks around the room, to the closet full of suits, the same identical pairs of shoes, all lined up and waiting. There’s a book on the nightstand he swears he’s read a hundred times before, and there’s Eames on his knees, looking younger than Arthur’s ever known him.

 

New York, he thinks. That’s the last job he remembers. Rain, and lawnchairs, and holding his tongue when he should have cursed Eames out. Staying his hand when he should have shot them both out.

 

_ It’ll work, Arthur. Trust me. _

 

Arthur comes with a gasp, a forbidden word on his lips.

  
  
  
  


Limbo.

 

Arthur can’t sleep. He knows if he closes his eyes, or looks away for even a second, he’ll lose himself again. 

 

Arthur’s ninety percent sure that Eames is real. That he’s not just a figment of his own subconscious, intent on driving Arthur mad by forcing him to lose everything he was too scared to have in his real life.

 

Eames has become mocking. Self absorbed and vapid, but less assured in who he is. It’s the guilt, Arthur knows now, that’s doing this to him. Making him go backwards, like if he can just reach some imaginary turning point, it will change how things turned out.

 

He looks barely eighteen and the angry innocence he turns on Arthur twists inside him. They’re on the roof and the sun is going down, the golden orange rays making Eames burn so bright, Arthur’s eyes are watering.

 

Like this, Eames is more open to stupid ideas and asks fewer questions. He’s willing, and wanting, but his laughter is forced and his smile never touches his eyes. It pains Arthur to know him like this. To see that even this young, darkness has touched him. He longs for the jovial and yet more serious Eames. The one who has met his demons and made his peace. The one Arthur fell in love with.

 

Arthur cups his face and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. He holds Eames close and whispers in his ear that he’d have loved him earlier, if only he’d known him. Eames tucks his face into Arthur’s neck and they cling to each other the whole way down.

  
  


+1. 

  
  


When Arthur wakes up there’s no time to talk. Their extractor is ashen, but relieved, and they leave him to his own escape route. Arthur packs up the PASIV and gives Eames’ back one last, lingering look, then flees. 

 

He’s three countries away and still afraid to sleep when Eames finds him. He doesn’t knock, or ask to come in, simply picks the lock on Arthur’s door and presses him against the wall, his hands angry and desperate. Arthur breathes him in greedily, remembering all the false moments they shared when they thought their world was real. 

 

Those phantom touches are nothing compared to Eames hands on him now, rubbing, and kneading, and stripping away all of his resolve. Eames fucks into him and kisses away Arthur’s tears, whispering apologies and promises as he holds on tight enough to bruise. 

 

Arthur uses his teeth to trace every line of ink on Eames’ body, follows every inch of scar tissue with his tongue until Eames is shaking, and keening, and ready to go again. They watch the sun come up, clinging like they never did in the dream, sated, and thankful, and determined to spend one more lifetime by each other’s side.


End file.
